


Too Far

by arrow (esteefee)



Category: due South
Genre: Angst, April Showers Challenge, First Time, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-05
Updated: 2008-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-17 12:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/arrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray panics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Far

Ray is sitting by their tiny cooking stove and struggling to unknot a really stubborn piece of dog harness, his fingers so stiff from the cold he can barely feel them. He looks at Fraser, who is bent over their flimsy pot, the clouded morning sunlight flickering on his stubble, glinting in his eyes and then gone again. He looks like a stranger almost, out here in the big white empty, like that clean-cut Mountie guy he'd played back in Chicago was a two-year practical joke. Here he looks rugged and a little mean, a lot wild, and Ray has to look away because suddenly it hits him like a sack of hammers—

_What the fuck am I doing here?_

__It's not like he hasn't thought it in total exasperation about a million times since they set out to find the Hand of Franklin—in fact, it's pretty much a nightly ritual when he has to shed his damp clothing and shiver into his still-chilly sleeping bag. But for the first time the thought really sinks in—down low in his gut like ice water—and he's suddenly freaking _terrified_ , his heart beating so fast he can hear it like a message of doom— _I'm **fucked**. I'm **fucked**. I'm **fucked**._

He's so scared he actually says it out loud, his voice shaky and thin in the cold air. "What the fuck am I _doing_ here?"

He hears a sharp inhale and looks up to see Fraser's face, which for one split second screams guilt before it settles into a mask. But Fraser's breath gives him away in quick bursts of cloudy white. He's breathing too fast. And Ray thinks, _he's scared, too_.

And it hurts to see that, because it means Fraser knows. It's like he's been waiting for Ray to figure it out. Stupid, brain-damaged Ray. Takes him no less than three weeks traveling out into the middle of fucking nowhere, listening to Fraser sing as they fly over the snow and suck down pemmican day after day, before Ray finally realizes he's completely lost.

He's lost. He's where he shouldn't be. He's not where he _should_ be—Chicago is so far away right now, it's practically on the moon. How did he get so far from home?

"What am I doing here?" he whispers this time, and Fraser makes a weird noise.

"We're—an adventure—"

"Bullshit." It is. It's total B.S. An adventure has a point, a real purpose, like climbing Everest or road-tripping cross-country—a beginning and an end-point, but this thing they're up to, it's endless. It's pointless. Because they're out here, him and Fraser and Dief and some dogs, and nothing else _is_.

There's no Hand. Or if there is, they'll never find it. Ray _knows_ that. So what the fuck is he doing?

He's on his feet before he knows it, stalking up to Fraser in slow, steady crunches, and Fraser actually backs away from him, his face cautious and still. Ray grabs his wrists, catching them just above his gloves, and squeezes hard because he's panicking and desperate for something to hold onto. "I'm lost. How'd I get—? I'm lost, Fraser."

"We're not lost, Ray." Fraser's obviously trying to sound reassuring, but Ray can hear the rough break in his voice, and his eyes are wide enough that Ray can look into him, can see the fear wriggling there, too deep to get out.

Ray clenches harder, until he can feel the bones of Fraser's wrist shifting under his fingers. "Don't lie to me. I can't take it. I'm lost here, buddy. I'm—I need—"

"What? What do you need?"

Fraser sounds desperate to give it, whatever it is, but he obviously doesn't know, either. He can't know. This is Ray's life, and he's fucked it up so high and hard he's ended up in the Arctic freaking Circle.

Fraser is staring at him, frozen like a snow rabbit. And Ray finds himself saying, "I'm...I gotta go home. I'm going home."

And after a long moment, Fraser nods slowly.

"All right, Ray."

///

Ray hardly sleeps at all that night. He can feel Fraser behind him, not antsy, but so tense the nylon squeaks when he does move. And Ray feels like he's let Fraser down somehow, but what the fuck else is he supposed to do?

Finally, hours later, Ray starts to slip lower into sleep. Just as he's drifting off he can swear he hears Fraser whisper his name.

He doesn't answer.

///

The next morning they pack up, and Fraser turns the sled and starts them back. Ray is bundled up in the seat, every part of him cold, and there's this anxious buzz in the back of his head that says _go faster, go-go-go,_ because there's nothing but silence between them now, silence and the cold. He looks back and up occasionally, imprinting Fraser's profile, the slant of his cheek and the tuft of his hair over his eyes beneath his cap. Fraser doesn't look at him—or, if he does, it's only when Ray isn't.

And Fraser isn't singing anymore.

It's late when they make camp, and by the time they're on the second pot of tea the Lights have started their show. Fraser takes his cup and tromps off toward a rise. Dief gives Ray a look and then follows him.

 _What? What'd I do wrong?_ Ray wants to ask. It's not his fault he doesn't belong here, doesn't know what he's doing or even why he started to do it in the first place. He doesn't even remember _what_ he started to do. Does he?

It's so damned quiet, with just the crackle of the fire and a faint _whoosh_ of scattered snow from the occasional breeze. It's a weird, lonely sound. He shouldn't be lonely. He has a bunch of people waiting for him back in Chicago. There's Frannie, who treats him like an annoying older brother and gets pissed at him for running interference for Fraser. There's Welsh, who thinks he's completely nuts but puts up with him because he and Fraser make a great team. There's Stella, who doesn't love him anymore.

There's his turtle, Kaiser Söze, who only comes out of his shell when Fraser's around to feed him handpicked slugs.

And there's Fraser, who won't be there.

 _Fraser won't be there._  
  
Ray looks up. Fraser is a bulky silhouette against the night sky. He's standing absolutely still as if he's on guard duty, Dief a gray lump beside him. Ray wonders what Fraser is guarding against.

 _Just what he always is._ The stray thought tugs at Ray's mind, and he follows it idly. He's a detective, after all, although generally there's not much up here to detect except which way the caribou are running, and that's not a huge mystery.

The only real mysteries up here are what Ray is _doing_ here to begin with, and what Fraser is guarding against.

_Maybe they're the same thing._

Another weird thought. Ray freshens up his tea—and how fucked is it that he drinks _tea_ now?—and the thought slips away. His eyes slide back to Fraser, who hasn't moved, of course. Big dummy could be frozen solid by now. Better bring him some more hot water.

Ray grabs the water pot and trudges up the rise. Fraser doesn't even turn, but offers his cup when Ray bumps his elbow.

"Lights are real pretty tonight," Ray says.

"Indeed."

"I'll...miss being able to see 'em."

"Really." There's no question in Fraser's voice. In fact, he sounds angry. Maybe he wasn't really frozen, because there's heat there, plenty of heat, and Ray stiffens up.

"Yeah, really."

"And what else will you miss, Ray?" Fraser says it in a rush, and out of the corner of his eye Ray sees him bite his lip.

"Don't be stupid."

"Ah." Fraser lets out a rusty laugh. "Far too late for that, I'm afraid."

There's something there that Ray doesn't want to hear. It's another piece of the puzzle, but Ray is afraid again all of a sudden. He looks for something—anything—to distract him, but there's nothing but starlit snow. Snow and more snow, and in the distance the tree line they've been heading for all day. They'll be there by tomorrow—Ray's gotten good at judging distances. By this time tomorrow they will be in the trees, and in another two days or so they'll be back in Fort Diligence, their most recent stop.

It's a comforting thought. He hasn't gone too far. Not yet.

///

The silence in the tent is like a heavy black blanket pushing against Ray's chest. Fraser even breathes quietly, and Ray finds it annoying, just like most things that are perfect about Fraser. Like the way he sleeps on his back with his hands placed just _so_ on his stomach. Or the way his hair, in spite of the lack of showers and haircuts and _combs_ , even, still lies perfectly above his forehead in longer curls.

Like the way he never says what he doesn't mean to, or does what he shouldn't.

_He should. Dammit, he should, he should just—_

What? What should Fraser do?

_Before it's too late—_

__Ray's pulse beats way too hard and funky, and he takes a quick breath to settle it back down. After a while he calms and starts to doze, random images flashing in his mind. The yellow bowl with the orange stripe—his favorite soup bowl. Whatever happened to it? He must have lost it in the divorce, even though it wasn't part of a set or anything, so why would Stella...?

He hears Fraser sigh and shift in his sleeping bag. It's somehow reassuring to know that Mr. Perfect can't sleep either.

It reminds Ray of his long ago sleepovers with Hank—Henry Teeler, his best friend after Stella hit puberty and got too snooty to hang out with him for a while. Hank was perfect, too—so fucking _cool,_ back before cool was a marketing strategy. Back when it was pure instinct. Fuck, Hank had a hand-built skateboard with custom trucks, and his mother never made him cut his hair, and he was the first kid in the neighborhood to get Pong, which, wasn't that the total shit? He always had nifty ideas of things to do, too, and for some reason dragged Ray along. Ray would've followed Hank anywhere, to do anything, didn't matter what; Ray fucking _loved_ that guy—

Ray inhales suddenly, a burn of cold in his throat. _Loved him. Would've done **anything** for him, to be around him—_

"Ray?" It's Fraser's voice, a little thick. "Are you all right?"

— _would have jumped over a cliff, out of a plane, through a skylight._

"Yeah. 'M fine." He sounds a little garbled, but it must be enough, because Fraser doesn't say anything more. But Ray can feel him there, two feet away and _not sleeping_ because— _shit_ —Ray's breathing is still a little fast, a little panicked.

_No. No way I...no fucking way...I never wanted...I didn't, I swear—_

__But the truth is like kick in the nuts: pretty goddamned hard to ignore.

"Ray..."

"No. Just—no, Fraser."

But Fraser is sitting up now, and Ray's panic is spreading through his gut and shrinking his balls. He can feel himself shivering, and his teeth are starting to chatter.

Something soft and warm drifts over him, trapping his panting breath against his face. It's Fraser's sleeping bag, still warm from his body. It smells like him. Ray feels Fraser's hand pressing against his shoulder through the two layers of down.

"Easy, Ray. Deep breaths."

Ray tries. He really does, because Fraser needs his sleeping bag, and Ray is a pretty shit partner if he can't keep it together over one stupid realization, something he should have known his whole life. Something he _has_ known, because he's noticed, hasn't he? He called Fraser _perfect_ , but that's nothing more than a lame dodge for _beautiful._

 _Attractive. Hot._  
  
"I didn't know," Ray mumbles, trying to excuse himself, because no way Fraser doesn't get it. Ray can still see the flash of fear and guilt in Fraser's dark blue eyes from earlier—can finally recognize it. Fraser knew already, maybe. Maybe he was up here all along looking for something other than a dead guy's hand. Maybe he thought they'd find it together.

But Fraser just pats him and says, fear like a thin, sharp line slicing through his voice, "You're not...making sense, Ray. You should go back to sleep. I'm sure tomorrow—"

"No. Wait a second." Ray pushes the sleeping bags down and sits up. Fraser's shadow moves as if to help him, then backs away when Ray says harshly, "Just give me a minute."

"Yes. All right."

Ray sits on his can and just tries to _think_. He's been wondering what he's doing here, but now he knows. He knows where he is, and why. That's the first part, the thing that's caused the fear, nibbling at him, trying to get a big bite out of him. But now that he knows, what the _fuck_ —?

He's going to have to think about it.

Fraser breaks in out of nowhere with, "You know, we'll be at the tree line tomorrow."

"Yeah, I know." _So?_

"In two days you'll be on a plane to Chicago. There's no need to...you must stop worrying, Ray. There's no cause for worry—" Fraser is practically babbling now.

"I'll need more time than that," Ray hears himself say.

Fraser blows out a hunk of breath, sounding weirdly like Dief, and doesn't talk for a long second. Then he bursts out with, "For God's sake, Ray." And damned if Fraser isn't actually pissed at him—really pissed, if he's talking blasphemy. "Whatever for? We've _been_ out here...and now you—I understood you wished to leave. Don't you?"

Ray's about to say _no_ , or _I'm not sure,_ but Fraser doesn't wait for an answer. In the dimness of the tent Ray sees the vague shadow as Fraser leans down and grabs some things, and then he's opening the flap. A triangular slice of moonlight reveals him—looking ridiculous in nothing but his long johns and the boots on his feet—and then he's gone.

 _He'll freeze,_ Ray thinks, except this is Fraser, who knows better than anyone what the cold can do to a person; and, anyway, he had some stuff bundled in his hand, probably his coat and pants. Ray hopes.

 _The problem with instinct_ , Ray thinks as he settles back under the soft down, _is that it only gets you so far before you run into a blind alley_. He's been running blind since the Henry-fucking-Allen, and maybe it's time he stopped and looked around.

Maybe it's way past time.

///

He must have fallen sleep eventually, because when he opens his eyes again it's light out, white morning, and he can vaguely smell breakfast. Oats. It's _always_ oats, and after three weeks he's gotten used to them. Almost, he likes it—eating breakfast—oats and tea instead of M &Ms and coffee.

You can kind of get used to anything, after a while.

Ray crawls out from under the sleeping bags and it's then he realizes Fraser never took his own back—never slept, probably.

If Ray hadn't deduced that already, fine detective that he is, he would have known it instantly looking at Fraser's face. The guy looks tired. His face is as stiff and white as a pair of starched shorts.

But he holds out a cup of tea and a bowl of oats, and Ray takes them, grunting thanks, still half-asleep and too muzzy to think of what to say.

He doesn't want to talk about it, anyway. He doesn't know if he's made any progress since his total meltdown; and _gee_ , how embarrassing was that, freaking in the dead of night for no obvious reason. Fraser must think he's loony-toons.

Except Fraser isn't looking at him, so Ray can't tell what the hell he's thinking. The only way in is through Fraser's eyes—Ray learned that a long time ago—and right now Fraser isn't giving them up. Instead, he's staring out at the tree line.

Ray munches his oats, swipes the back of his glove over his mouth when he's done, and then washes everything in the snow. As usual it's hard to get the gunky bits free until they get frozen enough to kind of break off.

He hears the jingle of traces. Fraser's prepping the dogs; he must be in a pretty damned big hurry to get going because usually they sit a little while after breakfast to let things settle.

"Haley has a hot spot," Ray reminds him. "Right shoulder."

"Yes. I know."

Oh, crap. That's Fraser's _gone_ voice, the one he uses when he's pissed and sad and tired of everything. Like after Warfield had him beaten to a sticky paste.

Only this time it's Ray who did the beating. He knows it.

///

They make it back to Fort Diligence, though Ray isn't sure how because neither one of them is safe to drive a sled. Ray tries to think about things on the long trip, but he can't get any traction. Too many holes in the equation—biggest one is, he has no clue what Fraser thinks about all this. He isn't even sure anymore that Fraser is upset about anything but Ray giving up on their adventure.

Fraser finds a hotel and they go around back to board the dogs, who are crazy excited to be around people and buildings and other dogs—it takes Fraser, Ray and Dief combined to quiet them down enough to get them out of harness.

They walk up the creaky staircase to the second floor, and then Fraser hands him a key, and it's only then Ray realizes Fraser got them two separate rooms.

Ray tells himself it's so they can both have a shower at the same time, but he knows that's bull. Fraser doesn't want him around anymore. It's like Fraser's already walking away, and Ray feels a different kind of panic now, because that wasn't what he wanted, not really, but he can't bitch about it because he still isn't sure what he does want.

"I'll meet you after we've had a chance to clean up," Fraser says quietly. "Karen says there's quite a good restaurant just two doors down."

Dief makes a sound when they split up in the hallway. He's looking between the both of them, his tail wagging slowly. Fraser opens his door and jerks his head at Dief, who looks at Ray and gives a little whine before going in.

Fraser doesn't look at Ray at all.

///

Ray thinks he'll take a long, long shower, because it's been for fucking ever since he's had one, but once he's gotten his beard off and is scrubbing down he starts to feel this anxious tightening in his gut, and it gets worse the longer he's in there, so he cuts his shower short and rubs down with the cheap, scratchy hotel towel. It smells like bleach.

He's got one pair of clean underwear left, and no clean socks at all, but he finds a pair of Fraser's in his duffle for some reason and puts them on with a shrug. He hasn't worn his jeans since they started, so he throws those on and a clean shirt and then grabs his parka. Through the paper-thin walls he hears the TV of his next-door neighbor—sounds like whoever it is likes game shows.

Game shows and pizza, and basketball in the park. Sticky summers and fire hydrants and kids screaming. All the stuff that's waiting. Good stuff. So why is he even thinking about this?

He steps out into the hallway and hesitates outside of Fraser's door when he hears a heavy _thunk_ , loud, like something was thrown against the wall. Then there's this choking sound, low, and for exactly one split-second Ray thinks Fraser's being attacked or something—he even reaches under his arm for a gun that isn't there—but then the sound repeats, and Ray's legs feel suddenly weak, and he has to lean hard against the wall. Because that's—Fraser is—

 _Fraser_ is—

Ray goes back to his room door and opens it quietly, then slams it shut hard. He takes a deep breath, and then knocks three times on Fraser's door.

After a couple of long seconds, Fraser's voice, muffled but sounding totally normal, says, "One moment, Ray. I'm still getting dressed."

This, from a guy who a week ago stripped naked in the ball-freezing cold and then _rolled around_ in the snow, his face and chest flushed bright pink, his stomach heaving with gasps of laughter. _"No, really, Ray. You simply have to try it sometime."_

A minute or two later Fraser steps out, turning to say something to Dief before closing the door. Fraser's face is clean-shaven, his hair tidy and brushed back. And if Ray hadn't known, hadn't heard it for himself, he never would have noticed the tinge of red in Fraser's eyes.

"You hungry?" Ray asks nervously.

Fraser's head dips. "Some hot food would be good, yes," he says, which isn't the same thing at all. And Ray's stomach is a little queasy, but he just follows on Fraser's heels down the narrow hallway.

The restaurant is more of a pub with a few tables near the back. The television above the bar is turned on to _Jeopardy!_ They get some curious looks as they walk in, and then everyone turns back to their drinks and their game show.

At the table, Ray picks up the plastic coated menu and reads BBQ wings and Cobb salad and flank steak, and thinks how pub menus must be pretty much the same all over the world, except there's caribou chili on this one as well.

He's never felt less like eating, but he needs to keep up appearances, so he orders a beer and the steak with a side of chips. Fraser orders two steaks, one to go for Dief, and thanks the waitress kindly.

They sit looking around, not at each other, and it hurts Ray someplace deep—if he leaves, will they even bother to call? Write each other emails? Send a card at Christmas time? This is it, this could be their last meal together for their entire lives, and how much does that suck? Fraser is his goddamned best friend. Fraser is...Christ, he's the center of Ray's little universe.

The food arrives, and Ray waits a second before starting in on his, hoping the smell of the hot meat will stir up his appetite. His eyes drop to where Fraser is competently cutting up his steak, and Ray notices the knuckles on Fraser's right hand are red and a little swollen, the skin there roughed up.

And suddenly Ray just can't take it. He remembers the day Stella moved out. He remembers drinking too hard and waking up with a new hole in the sheet rock and a hand he could barely close around his toothbrush in the morning.

He can't do this. He can't do this to Fraser. He can't do this to _himself_ , fuck whatever else he's scared of. He's not even sure if he's not being a total idiot, anyway. Because it's been there the whole time, this gravitation he's got with Fraser, and just because Ray has finally picked up on it doesn't mean he isn't still the same guy he ever was—who he's always been. It suddenly seems like the stupidest thing to be scared of, like being afraid of your right hand. Like being frightened of your own dick.

"Ray." Fraser's hands have stopped moving. It looks like he's sliced up every piece of food on his plate, but hasn't eaten any of it yet.

Ray looks up.

Jesus. Fraser's _eyes_. Ray's not sure if it's because Fraser figures he's got nothing to lose, or what, but he's letting Ray see all of it right now, every bit of how badly he wants and knows he can't have, and it _hurts_ , it's like a claw-hammer to the gut to see that look on Fraser of all people. No one should be able to get to the guy like that. Fraser isn't supposed to be like _him_.

"Fraser, I made a mistake—"

"Please, don't," Fraser says, putting down his knife and fork. He goes formal, pure business, talking like he's got it memorized. "I was prepared to go wherever you wanted, for as long as you wanted to. For the pleasure of your company, your companionship. But you're leaving now." Fraser looks away. "I would appreciate it if, as a gesture of the friendship you feel for me, you would allow us to leave it like this."

More words than Ray has gotten out of the guy in days, and they're the absolutely _wrong_ words.

"I can't do that, Fraser."

Fraser starts to speak, flushes a little, and his lips press together, his mouth going down.

"I can't do _this_ ," Rays says, warming up to it, "be polite, say nice goodbyes, let this go, let _us_ go like this. Don't you get it?"

"Yes, Ray, of course I—no, not in the slightest." His left thumb flicks over his right eyebrow; his right hand is still lying next to his plate.

Oh. That's bullshit. "Look at me."

Fraser shakes his head stubbornly. "I've been doing nothing _but_ ever since we—"

"Christ, I _told_ you I just needed a little more time—"

Fraser does look up then, and his expression is a little terrifying. "We're all out of that particular commodity." He leans forward and reaches into his back pocket, pulling out some brightly colored bills, like he's going. He's going to run.

Ray reaches out and captures Fraser's wrist as he puts down the money.

"Yeah, we're all out of time. So here it is, like it or lump it—I ain't leaving."

It's like Fraser hasn't even heard him. He tries to pull his hand free. "I checked with Canadian North from my room, and there are flights out daily."

"I'm not going, Fraser." Ray pushes down harder on Fraser's wrist. "You're not going, either. Not until we settle this."

"There is _nothing_ _to_ _settle_ ," Fraser says, almost hissing, and he yanks his hand back so hard the entire table rocks. Ray grabs instinctively for his beer, and then thinks, _what the hell_ , and sits back to take a long sip before responding.

"You're right—it's already settled, except for the details."

Fraser's eyes narrow.

"You think I'm a coward or something? Thought I proved something on that score the first day I met you, Fraser."

"Because obviously driving a flaming Riviera would be much more terrifying," Fraser says in a completely sarcastic mutter.

"Fuck you. I mean seriously, fuck you, Fraser." Ray's voice gets a little loud, and some heads turn at the bar. Ray leans over their table, the smell of greasy fries in his nose. "Take me upstairs. Take me upstairs and I'll show you scared."

Fraser's mouth lifts in what in anybody else would be a sneer, but Fraser's too goddamned polite for that. "Fine. Fine. Come with me, then."

Ray feels a little shaky as he gets up, but the challenge has gotten his blood going, and he walks out in front of Fraser, feeling his eyes on him all the way back to the hotel.

"Your room," Fraser says shortly, hustling him along. Ray is getting an idea of what he's up to, and doesn't like it much, but Fraser obviously needs to try it his way.

Sure enough, as soon as Ray opens the door Fraser is pushing past him, dropping his parka and the doggy bag on the floor, then pulling Ray in by one shoulder and kicking the door shut behind them. Then he shoves Ray up against the flimsy, papered wall and yanks off his jacket.

And what Ray thinks is, not this way. Not like this, like an angry dare, like a weapon in Fraser's hand just to warn him away. Not now that they're right here, right at the edge. So, when Fraser leans forward to kiss him, Ray stops him with one hand on Fraser's cheek. He strokes his thumb over Fraser's lips, feeling the chapped edge and then pink softness. Fraser's eyes close and he tries to pull away. But Ray is all over that, all over him—both arms going around Fraser's shoulders, hands clasped behind in a body lock. And so it's going to have to be Ray kissing Fraser, instead of the other way around, and Ray shouldn't be surprised about that, because it was the same with Stella, who in spite of being a tomboy and having this big act around the other girls, was still so sweetly nervous the first time.

Fraser cranes his head back—not to avoid him, it seems, but to look at him. His eyes—Christ his eyes are so hard. He breaks Ray's grip around him, grabs Ray's hand and yanks it down his crotch, shoving it against his hard-on, and his expression says, _Go ahead and freak out, Ray. I know you will._ And, Jesus, Ray almost does, but he squeezes a little instead, and Fraser's eyes roll, his lids dipping down for a second before startling wide. It's maybe the hottest thing Ray has ever seen, the hottest thing he's ever felt, having Fraser's cock in his hand, thick and warm and reacting to his touch, so he leans forward, and before Fraser can stop him, kisses him dead on the lips.

The fight is over right there. Fraser just fucking melts against him, white flag, full surrender. His mouth is hot and open and his tongue is dancing in and out of Ray's mouth, touching everywhere he can reach. Ray tilts his head and ignores how _big_ Fraser's tongue is in his mouth, and the scratchiness of his slightly chapped lips, and just kisses back with a purpose. He feels Fraser's cock getting longer, shifting in his hand, and suddenly realizes he's hard himself. Doesn't even know how long he's been feeling the pressure there, but he's hard as a rock.

And shit, _that_ scares him. Like it was okay if Fraser got excited, but he wasn't expecting—this is really real, the real deal here. Just _kissing_ Fraser makes him hard.

He freezes up then, and Fraser breaks the kiss, and he must have seen it all on Ray's face, because he gives this tiny, bitter smile and shoves Ray back until his shoulders hit the wall. Fraser raises one eyebrow as if to say, _It's as I expected, Ray. You haven't the courage to face the truth._

Ray closes his eyes and sees Hank, the glint of sun on his long hair, the casual slope of his hips as Ray followed him on his own board along the lake front. He sees the way he made Stella his everything after that summer, blocking out all others as if nobody else existed. The expression on Hank's face that fall when they ran into each other back at school was a little like Fraser's just now.

Ray had followed Hank, had followed Fraser, but never too far. Now _too far_ is staring him in the face, is closing his eyes and turning away—is going to walk out the door, right now. Right _now_.

Ray grabs Fraser's arm just above the elbow. Hard muscle there tenses up, bunches up, and for a second Ray is worried Fraser will just spin around and pop him one. Like out there on the lake.

But Fraser doesn't move, and suddenly Ray realizes he's waiting to follow Ray's lead on this. This time Fraser will follow, if Ray can just—

Ray slides his hand down Fraser's arm and catches his hand, catches it and pulls it to plant it on his hard-on. Ray feels the pulse in his cock leaping hard against Fraser's palm, and then Fraser closes his hand gingerly, testing it along the length, fingers gripping and squeezing— _Christ_ , Ray could come soon, could come just from this. His heart is beating in his neck, throbbing deep in his gut. Fraser's fingers move on the button of his fly. They drag down Ray's zipper and then burrow inside his last clean pair of jockeys and now Fraser really has him in his hand, rough palm pressed beneath the crown, fingers forking below and squeezing, squeezing, his wrist moving.

Ray takes one gasping breath and comes so hard his knees tremble. He moans something, Fraser's name, maybe, and his cock spurts again and again against Fraser's warm hand.

He's still shuddering when Fraser kisses him, and he has to breathe out hard into Fraser's mouth. Fraser has his other arm wrapped around him, holding him up. And then Fraser kisses beneath his eyes, and his lips are salty when he kisses Ray again. Fraser whispers, "It's all right, it's all right, Ray. You needn't worry—this doesn't mean—"

Ray wants to yell a denial but his breath is still hitching in and out—he can't stop _shaking_ —and finally Fraser nudges him over to the bed and pushes him down. Ray grabs his hand—it's still damp and smells like spunk when he pulls it over, pulls Fraser down with him. Fraser settles next to him and Ray gets close, slings a leg over Fraser's thigh so he can't try to leave.

Because Fraser's wrong. This does mean everything. It means Ray's a goddamned fool because all these _years_ he's been telling himself stories, looking the other way, all for Stella and a life he thought he had to live. Afraid to go too far down the wrong road for no good reason. He never really had a chance to decide; it all was settled before he even knew there was a question.

But now he knows what to ask, and as soon as he gets his breath back he pushes on Fraser's shoulder, surprising him, flattening him to the bed. Ray leans down to get Fraser's fly open.

Fraser freezes, and his hands lie by his sides, open and white and still. Ray reaches into Fraser's boxers and pulls his cock out, and Fraser's fingers twitch.

It's in his hand. Fraser's cock is in his hand. Thick, like he'd thought, and Fraser has a foreskin, which Ray knew from bathroom peeks, but now the crown is pushing out from the tender sleeve of skin. Ray bends over it, and he hears Fraser gasp above him in surprise, and then Ray licks, licks down the shaft and then up again, cupping it in his hand to hold it steady as it jerks and grows even harder.

And Ray holds it closer in his hand, wets the head with his tongue and squeezes as he strokes it, watching the shiny red cockhead, tight as a drum, as it disappears and reappears behind the moving hood of foreskin, and Fraser shakes, moaning, "Ray, Ray," and his cock spits and spatters white stuff, creamy and thick.

It's amazing. Ray is just amazed.

Fraser sounds pretty fucking amazed, too, as he tugs fretfully at Ray's shoulder, begging him to come up. And there's spunk on Ray's fingers as he brushes them against Fraser's lips, and Fraser's tongue comes out and licks him clean, staring into his eyes the entire time, the deep color clear as a blue slag marble.

Just like the one Hank had given him that he's kept all these years.

When Ray can talk again he says, "I want you should know, Fraser, if I had any idea, I never would've dicked you around like this—" He stops when he hears how stupid he sounds, but Fraser just grabs him close and presses his mouth against Ray's, and that's the last Ray remembers for a little while.

///

When he opens his eyes again it's either way late or way early. He hears Dief snoring in the corner, and he remembers waking up when Fraser brought the wolf in, and pushing off his jeans and shoes and socks to get more comfortable. Fraser must have done the same, because he's lying on his back next to Ray, and dressed only in his pure white boxers and tank T-shirt. There's something weirdly old-fashioned about Fraser's underwear, which isn't surprising because there's something weirdly old-fashioned about Fraser himself. That's how Ray knows this is for keeps, even if the look in Fraser's eyes earlier hadn't told him so, loud and clear.

So, looking at Fraser now, Ray thinks how it's all his—the pale skin of Fraser's shoulders, the shadow of his nipples beneath the white-white shirt, the limp cock curled behind the gap in Fraser's underwear. Fraser's smooth, long legs and bare feet. Ray's seeing skin, and he's seeing the future, and the chance he's earned to learn every sweet spot and hot curve.

And then there's the sleepy look in Fraser's eyes as they open and stare up at Ray, the love there deeper than anything he's ever seen. All for him, for one crazy, brain-damaged, burned-out Chicago cop.

Turns out for Ray there is no such thing as too far—not when it comes to Fraser. And Ray bends over Fraser's flushed face, game to try to prove it again.

And over and over, for as long as it takes.

  
...................  
2008.04.05

  



End file.
